“What! Are you nuts? Richard is, you know. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t do anything to even the score.”
“He won’t, Hetta. He’s scared of you. He told me so.”
“He’s scared of me? I like it. Why?”
“Maybe you don’t want to hear this.”
“Hey, I’ll consider the source.”
“Well, okay. What he said was, ‘Hetta’s unbalanced and it’s only a matter of time before she goes off the deep end.’ ”
“He said that, did he? Well good, I’m glad he thinks so. A fearsome reputation is a good thing to have when it works to your benefit. Unbalanced, huh? I should have rubbed the inside of that Armani with poison ivy and let you give it back to him.”
Jan eyed me warily. Okay, maybe I am slightly demented.
She dropped us off and took the VW home with her since she was returning the next day to stay with RJ while I went true north, to Seattle. See what a fast study I am?
9
Seattle was heating up, business-wise, and I had scheduled meetings for three days running. RJ was pouting when I left the following morning, but I called him from the airport so he could hear the message I’d recorded for him on my non-business answering machine. The phone rang three times, then I heard my voice and knew RJ could, as well.
“RJ, my man, what are you doing? Are you being a good doggy? Yes, I miss you, too. Mommy will be home before you know it. Get off the couch.” I hoped I didn’t get any important personal calls. Who was I kidding? The only person who called me was Jan.
I called her that evening and heard RJ barking and growling in the background. “How’s Seattle?” Jan asked over the din.
“Rainy and dull. Popular movie aside, seems like all they do here is sleep. What’s RJ’s prob?”
“Mailman.”
“At this hour?”
“Actually, it was a postal inspector. He just left and he ain’t real happy.”
“Churlish, those postal employees. What now? I always worry they’re gonna show up with an automatic weapon in lieu of my mail.”
“Oh, that’s not going to be a problem for you, Hetta. Your mail service has been cut off. From now on, you have to pick it up at the post office.”
“Zut alors! Why?”
“For one thing, RJ went walk about. He terrorized the mailman, wouldn’t let him out of his Jeep. Bit his tires. Amongst other things.”
“We can get to those ‘other things’ later. How in hell did RJ get out?”
“I don’t know. You want to ask him?”
“Very funny, Miz Jan.”
“All I know is dog jail was still padlocked and the garage door was closed. Only thing I can figure is he’s found a new escape hatch under the house. I looked everywhere, but I can’t find it.”
“Merde. So, let’s get to those ‘other’ things. What do I have to do to get mail service restored?”
“It depends on the hearing.”
“Hearing? RJ bit tires, not people. I hope.”
“True, but that’s not the charge.”
“Jan, why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this? Quit screwing around and give me the bottom line.”
She giggled. “Your dog, RJ Coffey, is charged with carjacking. Of a federal vehicle. There was also mention of mail tampering and the FBI.”
“Stand by,” I said. I put down the phone, crossed to the minibar in my room, grabbed a minute bottle of Jack Black and swallowed it in one non-mini gulp. Then I went back to the phone. “Let’s have it.”
“One of the neighbors, Bunnie Adams? Well, she heard the mailman hollering bloody murder. When she went out, she found him sitting in his Jeep, threatening RJ with a can of mace while your dawg munched his tires. Bunnie scolded the vicious cur, grabbed him by the collar, and put him into your backyard.”
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. “So, how did the postman like my backyard?”
“Very damned funny. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, if barking at the postman was a federal offense, every dog in the whole wide world would be a felon.”
“Oh, that’s not all.”
I eyed the minibar, but resisted its call. “What is all?”
“Well, the postman delivered the mail just fine, but when he got back, RJ had his furry rump firmly entrenched in the Jeep’s driver’s seat. A tussle ensued, the mailman got maced, and the Jeep somehow got put into neutral and rolled two blocks before crashing into Mr. Fujitsu’s hedge.”
“Oh, hell. Is RJ all right?”
“He’s fine. But,” I heard her take a sip of wine to stifle a laugh, “he may lose his license.” Great guffaws. “Sorry, Hetta. Anyhow, the only damage is to Mr. Fujitsu’s hedge, the postal department’s Jeep and the mailman’s disposition. Which, by the way, I hear wasn’t so sunny to start with.”
I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Finally I gasped that I couldn’t talk anymore or I’d wet my pants. I hung up and laughed until I started crying. Was there life after RJ?
When I called the next night, there was no answer. I hung up before the machine could take over, then did some work, and called back. I was hearing my own message, the business version, when Jan grabbed the phone. “I’m here.”
“You sound out of breath. Postal employee after you?”
“Nope, ran up the front steps. Heard the phone ringing from outside. I got home early, so I took RJ for a walk. Did you call before?”
“Yep, but I hung up on the third ring.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, yeah, I thought maybe...never mind.”
“Never mind what?”
“Someone breathed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone breathed into your machine, Hetta.”
“Did you check caller ID?”
“It said something like ‘unidentified.’ ”
“Well fooey, Jan. I didn’t sign up for caller un-identification. What the hell did I get if for if it doesn’t work? Oh, never mind, it’s probably some kid. Or mailman.”
“Well, RJ didn’t like it. He growled.”
“At my answering machine?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe it was a cat burglar. RJ hates cats. Oh, well, I’ll be home mañana. So, other than the breather, what kind of day have you and my perp pup been having?”
“Grand. By the way, you’re getting low on steaks and Hershey Bars.”
“Why don’t you two try eating some veggies. I’ll shop this weekend.”
“You’re busy this weekend.”
“I am?”
“I found us cheap sailing lessons. It’s a group called Nineties something or other Sailing Club, and we can pay by the day. One thing though—it’s all women.”
“I don’t find that a problem. One of those books we got said it’s easier to learn without some guy yelling at you. And you don't have to worry what your hair looks like. Gotta run. See you tomorrow. Kiss RJ for me.”
I hung up, ran a brush through my hair and smeared color on my lips and cheeks. My client had decided on a dinner meeting to wrap up the week so I could take an early flight out the next day. I arrived at the restaurant humming a Jimmy Buffet number, all aglow with the promise of salty adventures to come.
“Okay, you guys,” I told the group of electrical engineers gathered around the table, “let’s get this show on the road. I wanna go sailin’. ”
One of them looked out the window into drizzling fog and shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, Hetta.”
10
I knew in my heart that, well-hidden above a shroud of spooky fog, a Saturday sun lurked, but there was room for some serious doubt.
“Are we there yet?” Jan yawned.
“We probably would be if you’d sit up and help me look for a street number in this soup. Where the hell is this sailing club of yours?”
Jan flipped up the seat back and squinted at barely visible warehouses and docks lining the brick paved road. A foghorn e
choed through the deserted streets. I half expected to get a glimpse of Vampire Lestat folding his wings for the night. I hit the door LOCK button.
“When I called yesterday, they said we’d see a sign. There,” she said, pointing to a faded blue and white sign on a dilapidated wooden structure. Even with the car windows up I detected a fishy odor.
“What kind of sailing club is this?” I demanded. “Where are the colorful banners? The sport cars? Hell, where are the boats?”
I parked in the loading zone in front, under the modest sign reading:
GAY NINETIES SAILING CLUB
MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY
RING BELL
“Oh, well, Miz Jan, you said it was cheap. The object here is to learn to sail, right?”
Jan cast a cynical eye in my direction. “Don’t give me any stiff upper lip crap. You’re gonna mouth off about the place having a certain air about it. Probably get us kicked out before we begin.”
“You know me all too well, sailor. Okay, I’ll stow the sarcasm for the sake of my shipmates.”
As their sign instructed, we rang. After a small delay, during which I suspected we were being checked out through the peephole, a willowy blonde in white ducks, Docksiders, and a pink windbreaker swung the door open and greeted us. “You must be Hetta and Jan,” she said. “I’m Doris. Come on in. We’re getting organized for today’s sail. We need you to fill out a form or two before we shove off. Did you bring your Coast Guard certificates? Gotta be careful these days. Lawyers and all.”
We gave Doris copies of our certificates and followed her into a pennant-festooned room with round, dark wooden tables surrounded by captain’s chairs. A steaming coffee pot sat on a counter lined with cups, and marine charts littered a large conference table. Several women glanced up from poring over the charts, waved, and went back to planning our day. Jan and I were given questionnaires and pens.
“Sailing experience?” Jan said, studying the form.
I shook my head. “Nada.”
“If we say that, they might not let us go.”
“Jan, three weeks ago you said there was no way in hell you were going to take these lessons. What brought on your sudden dire need to be accepted?”
“You did. You said if we sailed, we’d meet men. I’m willing to put in the time.”
“Good girl.” I waved the form at her. “Let’s be honest.”
Picking up my ballpoint, I filled in under SAILING EXPERIENCE, Caribbean, Mediterranean, and trans-Pacific. I left out the fact that all of this cognitive content was gained on cruise ships the size of small cities.
The next question was easy. WHY DO YOU WANT TO LEARN TO SAIL? It is against my nature to answer this type of question with any honesty, but I thought, what the hey? and wrote: Meet new people. Learn a skill. Find a mate.
“You two about ready?” Doris said. “We’ll be out around four hours. Hope you had breakfast.”
Jan and I looked at each other. “Uh,” I said, “not exactly. I thought maybe we’d stop for brunch at some waterfront establishment.”
Doris grinned, shaking her head. “Sorry, girls. We’re out to sail, not bar hop. I suggest you grab some crackers from the coffee counter. Sailing on an empty stomach is a real bad idea.”
Jan and I stuffed our pockets with packages of Premium Saltines, she grumbling something about no peanut butter. We trailed Doris to a rickety dock where others waited. “Shipmates,” she yelled, “newbies.”
Twenty women were quickly divided into four teams and assigned a boat. Mine was a thirty-two foot Catalina under the command of Dilly, a sturdy looking woman with silvery crew cut hair and yellow, crooked teeth. Dressed in shiny, dark gray, foul weather gear, she resembled an overweight shark. After perusing my flimsy sailing curriculum vitae, she glared at my French manicured silk wraps, ruby ring, and Rolex watch. An unrefined snort of derision preceded her command to take off the jewelry. “It’s dangerous,” she spat.
I quickly began shoving everything, including my neck chain, into a zippered pocket. “Anyone else dressed for cocktails?” she snarled. Head shakes all around. “No? Then let’s go sailing. If, that is, Princess here is finished stashing her jewels.”
Feeling like a six-year-old who’d farted at a family funeral, I slunk onto the boat and gazed longingly towards Jan, who was being welcomed aboard another vessel by her teammates. She waved, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I pouted.
Two hours later, I was cold, tired, hungry, humiliated, and livid. Dilly gave me no quarter, screaming orders I barely understood and then dressing me down when I didn’t react properly or promptly. So much for the friendly female atmosphere.
Winch handles reduced my seventy dollar manicure to bloody stumps, a diabolical boom repeatedly attacked my head, and I ached from unaccustomed physical labor. Cowering before the mast, I was grateful for the pitying looks of the others. I’d seen many a pirate movie so, fearing a keelhaul in my near future, I tried sweet talk.
“So, Dilly,” I wheedled, “how did you get the cute nickname? Because you’re a dilly of a sailor?”
“Nope,” she said, then unaccountably stuck out her tongue. My look of total incomprehension, one I had worn most of the day, prompted a huff of exasperation. “Because, you fluff ball, I don’t need no stinking dildo.”
Hooting arose while I tried to close my mouth. Hetta Coffey—world-traveler, bon vivant, sophisticate—blurted, “You’re a dyke?”
Hostile silence fell upon the good vessel Sappho. I belatedly remembered who Sappho was. Zut Alors! I was in the middle of San Francisco Bay, surrounded by now antagonistic shipmates and sharks, on a boat named for the poetess of Lesbos.
“No, girly,” Dilly snarled, “I’m a lesbian. Are you telling me you don't know this is a lesbian sailing group?”
“Well, of course I...uh, no.”
* * *
“Jan, I’m going to kill you.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Why don't we start with the name of the damned club? Gay Nineties, Jan, not Nineties something.”
Jan raised a weak defense. “I learned a lot today. The women on my boat were very nice and they taught me a lot of neat stuff.”
“I’ll tell you what I learned. To stay away from dykes on docks, the Sisters of Sappho, and women named Dilly. And to make my own sailing reservations.”
Jan grinned and despite my chagrin, so did I. By the time we climbed onto barstools at my tennis club and downed a beer, we were giddy with laughter and fatigue.
“I guess we’re even,” Jan chortled into her drink.
“For what?”
“Oh, let me count the ways. How about when you made me take belly dancing lessons because you heard it turned men on. All we attracted was an alcoholic Arab. Then there were the skiing lessons so you could schuss after some Swedish instructor. I ended up in a cast. And how about the—”
“Okay. Enough. We’re even. More than even, because today was way up there in one of my worst day experiences. Maybe you were right in the first place. Maybe this sailing thing wasn’t such a great idea.”
“I disagree. I enjoyed myself. Oh, and I lined you up for a couple of dates. Two can play your sleight of card game.”
“Cute. Okay, so to your own amazement, you like to sail. What next?”
Ester, the bartender, had been eavesdropping. A woman after my own heart. “Hard day on the Bay?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s put it this way, Ester. If I ever do buy a boat, I’ll name it the Hetta Row, so there’s no confusion.” I told her of my delightful morning with Dilly.
“Oh, boy, you did have some day on the Bay. I got a story for you. Two of my more desperate friends found out about a group of lesbians planning a trip to a Club Med in Mexico, so they signed up, thinking with all those Lizzies there, the man-field would be wide open. Turns out, though, the gals arranging the trip had dictated that all other guests, and any male staff, be banned during the entire week. My fr
iends spent the whole week holding hands to fend off unwanted attention.”
The bar was empty, so Ester came around and sat down with us. “You know, there’s a yacht club in Oakland with a sailing group called Women on the Estuary. I’m a member.”
I narrowed my eyes with mock suspicion and Ester laughed. “And no, Hetta, it’s not gay. Maybe a couple of them, but who cares?”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 6